


"Encounter in the Rain"

by Mooninscorpio



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Chance Meetings, Gen, non-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 18:40:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4360082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mooninscorpio/pseuds/Mooninscorpio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A middle aged woman returns to NYC again after 30+ years to revisit family, friends and to sightsee some of her old haunts from her youth.  She stays with family in the suburbs and goes into NY alone one morning.  S decides to take the subway to 42nd St. and wants to walk ten blocks to St. Patrick's Cathedral and Rockefeller Center.  On the way,she has a sudden impulse to revisit the NYPL (NY Public Library).  She roams through the various floors of the old-revamped library and finds some unusual but unpopular books for sale there.  She purchases one of the books, walks out towards Bryant Park and sits on a bench to rest for a few minutes.  She notices someone sitting at the next bench on her left, partially hidden by a big black umbrella.  The next few minutes change her life forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Encounter in the Rain"

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any of the characters in Person of Interest. 
> 
> There is some autobiographical material included in this story, however, names have been omitted, for privacy. The events in this story are purely fictional. 
> 
> This story is meant to be an introduction or "Prequel" to the epic tale "The Way of the Warrior and The Beautiful Way", in order to serve as a fictionalized inspiration to it.

The middle aged woman quickly ascended the long stairs out onto the noisy street, as the departing subway causes gusts of warm wind to propel her coattails upward. She is suddenly back in time: age 24, living and working in the city. A mixture of slight fear of being alone downtown, exhilaration that she is finally in NYC again and sadness over the passage of years overwhelm her. Quckly, she joins the group ready to cross the street onto Fifth Ave. She moves as one with them, trying to re-don her old persona, detached, alert, hugging her hidden cross body purse, skyscrapers looming everywhere, people speaking rapidly in a dozen languages, food and sewer smells, cab drivers cursing at each other, the impatient blast of horns and sirens around the corner. How did she ever live here, and survive? And that was back in the seventies, when the city was really Babylon and not ex-mayor Giuliani's provincialized tourist town. 9-11 changed all that. Good out of evil. 

She walked towards the still-impressive Beaux Arts style NY Public Library, with the ever-vigillant lions, Patience and Fortitude, silent sentinels, guarding its entrance, their expressions mirroring the quintessinal NY attitude of unfazed detachment towards the chaos of life in the city, since their unveiling back in 1911. She entered the first floor, the Rose Room with its high 52 ft. ceilings, rows of arched windows, sturdy wood desks, ornate ceiling and softly glowing chandeliers. Laptops and PC's now adorned the sedate work desks. A time warp for her: last time she was here, she was a student with real books and research. The Dewey Decimal System was still in use and computers were just beginning to catalog the vast volumes above, which were framed by metal grille gates. The closed stacks, books procured on request and sent through the pneumatic tubes and the dumb waiters to the main desk for pick up. Did the library still use the antiquated system? She passed rows of patrons, heads bent over their screens, the clicking of mouses, instead of rustling pages. How odd this new silence of the library. 

She got on the elevator and randomly pressed 3, and when she stepped out again, she immediately saw the ultra modern wall art, the sterile smell of new carpeting and a directional map. Completely at a loss, she turned uncertainly to the left and followed the arrows indicating "Books for Sale: Cash only Accepted" She walked to a wall of old school library shelves and noticed the pricing list. "As is, all sales final, no returns. All books $10-$30. Pay at Reference Desk.

She removed her raincoat and began to peruse the motley collection of unusual titles. "History of The Hapsburgs", "Music in Western Civillization", "Hollywood Noir Film Directors", "Comrade Love of the Samurai; 1642-1695)". "The Abolitionists Who Changed History"  
She pulled out the red book with its gold leaf covered pages, noticing the elegant imprint of Asian characters and two crossed swords on the cover. The price tag inside read "$18.00". There was an old stamped identification label "This book belongs to: History Dept. NYU" in faded block print. She sat at a small formica desk and spent a few minutes reading the table of contents, intrigued by the subject. She noticed that the chapters were interspersed with poetry, and a few color inserts of ancient samurai paintings, and towards the back of the book, photographs of the latter-centuries of samurai, taken in the early days of photography. Clearly before WWII. She began to mull a thought in her mind, and excitedly, she rushed to the reference desk to pay for the book that nobody wanted anymore. The digital age had no use for a hard cover book on this subject. She would take it back with her on the plane and read it in the cool of her constantly air conditioned home. Her stomach growled for lunch as she descended back to the first floor. She took out her cellphone and snapped a few photos of the Rose Room before stepping outside to get some lunch. 

She noticed a small, gated, intimate park nearby with outdoor vendor stalls along one of its gates. She smelled coffee and pastries from the restaurant-cafe overlooking the park. The sky was becoming cloudier and grayer than earlier in the morning. She sat on a bench to browse through her interesting book, touching the shiny gold-gilt edges of it. Her father would like this book. He was a book collector, she had thought in her childish naiveté. He actually was a mild to moderate level hoarder, according to her mother's matter-of-fact critique. Memories of high home-made bookcases, housing old National Geographic magazines from 1961-1969, gigantic Time-Life books on "The Animal Kingdom: Part 1-2", "Gone With The Wind" the 1946 version, Grimm's Fairy Tales, Books 1-3, The Stamp Collector's Treasury, half-stamped pages of faded stamps of animals, birds and past presidents. Then all the dusty LP's lining the bottom shelves … 

She returned to the present. She began to feel drizzly mist on top of her head. She pulled her silk scarf higher behind her neck and searched for her small umbrella. She forgot it at her sister's apartment uptown. The scarf would have to do until she got back on the train again. She flipped some pages of photographs. Two samurai together, sitting with knees apart, fiercely staring at the camera. The larger of the two, placing a hand on the other's shoulder. Interesting, she mused. She heard a metallic sound just then. A green can of soda suddenly rolled on the ground across her feet. She turned towards the bench on her left.

Someone sat partially obscured by a large black umbrella: The figure shifted forward a little, tilting the umbrella. She bent forwards to get out of her seat to retrieve the can of cold ginger ale, still unopened. She half-shuffled towards the figure under the umbrella to return the soda can. The figure stood up then, and she heard a soft, polite man's voice saying:

"Thanks very much!" Long fingers wrapped around the cold soda can and lightly touched her own fingers. She looked up, way up, at the tall man. 

She took in a sharp breath, almost dropping the can back on the ground. 

"Jesus", she whispered, as she gazed up in shock. The man smiled a little. She stood as still as the lions, Patience and Fortitude. She needed that now desperately. All she can do is nervously clutch her book tighter, as her mind crazily repeated the mantra: "it's now or never, now or never, now or never. Tell him! Tell him everything you ever wanted to tell him! This is your only chance! 

He looks at her closely, noticing her look of silent recognition, and notices her expression changing from shock and recognition, to wordless panic. She knows those eyes anywhere!;Those unmistakable blue eyes she'd seen a thousand times in her mind. His hair is really shiny, well styled, his white shirt is immaculate, his suit under his coat, of the best quality. An earpiece and thin cord hang discreetly down the side of his neck. He is clean shaven and she smells a subtle, intoxicating cologne. She sees every little detail about him and barely whispers, " you're welcome." The drizzle is coming down a little steadier now. Her curly hair is getting wetter. She has no umbrella. She doesn't care. 

He looks upwards, then at her again, and holds his umbrella over her head protectively. Her heart melts and she dares not make a scene, dares not mention his name or call any attention to him. He gestures for her to sit next to him and share his umbrella. 

"That's a beautiful book you have there. You don't want to get it wet in this rain." he looks at her sideways as she sits on the bench, unable to speak. She must speak and speak as if she doesn't know who he is so she doesn't scare him away. 

"Thank you. I just bought it at the library. They're selling books no one wants because of the internet." she tries to sound calm, but she's talking a little too fast and stupidly, to her own ears. Say something that counts, that means something! - a voice screams in her head. He looks at the gold lined volume. 

"May I see it?" he asks politely. Wordlessly, she hands it to him, watching his beautiful hands all the while. He turns some pages, and looks very briefly at some of the photographs. 

She suddenly feels embarrassed at the subject matter. She stammers suddenly.

"I --I kn-know it's a weird subject. I'm not like that or anything! -I'm 100% straight, a good Catholic! " she trailed off, her cheeks growing very hot, as clear blue eyes looked at her still closely. She was going to die right here on this bench in the middle of midtown. She took a deep breath and fought off her nerves.

"I really bought it because I write stories as a hobby and also I was remembering my mother." she felt burning behind her eyes. She always hid her feelings, especially the deep ones. All her life it was her habit and she took after her long-gone mother in only that one thing. 

He tilted his head studying her, for a moment

"Do you have some oriental in your family?" The question she'd heard all her life from everyone she'd ever met. A curse when she was younger while trying to fit, in as cruel school kids mercilessly taunted her for years, and a blessing, now that she was older and could accept herself totally, as did everyone else in a more mixed-race world. 

For the next few minutes, she condensed her life and chose her words carefully, not wanting to talk excessively. Her mixed heritage, her parent's meeting during the war. Her mother's hardships during that time. Her long career in the medical field, her body too ill to continue working. Her much simpler lifestyle now and even missing her beloved dog back home. He looked completely fascinated and she felt as if she was the most important person in the world to him, and she was deeply touched that he wanted to know about her family, her upbringing, her plans for the future. 

"I have three children, all from China, my wife and I adopted. That's why i thought you had some oriental in you." he explained and smiled more easily now. 

"How beautiful, what you and your wife did!" she exclaimed with the true sincerity she felt, that she dreamed of telling him if she ever met him.  
"You took the children that nobody wanted, halfway around the world, and gave them love and a home! A one in a million chance for them to survive over there and you both gave them a second chance to live!" She suddenly stopped speaking, and overcome with emotion, she unconsciously blessed him with the sign of the cross in mid-air. 

He closed his eyes and she saw the most beautiful, longest eyelashes on a man that she'd ever seen. When he looked at her again, he asked,

"Are you Catholic?" She knew he was and she wanted to tell him about what his movie did to her: got her back to church after nearly 28 years of vowing never to return to it. A great wrong was done and she'd never forgiven the Church for it, after all she'd done to volunteer her time and talents for it. 

"Yes, I'm back in the Church. After not being in it for years." She looked away, feeling the burning behind her eyes again. She had to say something she'd always wanted to say to him now or else the lost opportunity would eat away at her forever.  
"I saw a movie back in '04 that changed me, and then Pope John Paul II died. I watched his funeral. The whole thing. Something happened inside me watching it. The movie, the Pope'a funeral, did it. I went back after 28 years. " she blinked hard at the memory of it.

He nodded, and his face grew serious. He very gently pressed his hand on her forearm. She heard him begin to speak seriously and with quiet emphasis, 

"God forgives you for the years you didn't go, especially if something very bad happened to you. What matters now is that you're back in the Church and I hope you forgave the person who did you wrong." She was stunned at where he was going with this.

"Yes, I did. It took me years, but I finally did it." she suddenly confided to him for some reason. She left out the grief and pain of her mother's loss, more than 30 years ago, the Church's refusal to give her a proper funeral because of their nonacceptance of the oriental custom of cremation. The intoxicated priest who came to their home and handled it horribly by lashing out at her family, with cursing and intolerant anger. The intervention of her relatives who knew a Hispanic archbishop in NY, a close family friend, who, upon hearing about the situation, righted the wrong immediately and sensitively. She forgave, but still couldn't forget. She left out the long years of cold, silent bitterness, the spiritual emptiness and how it all just disappeared almost overnight, in some kind of miraculous way. She felt the burning again behind her eyes and blinked hard, staring down at her lap. He nodded and whispered gently.

"Good for you." He pressed his hand again over her forearm. 

She didn't know what else to say. He looked down at her book and realized that he was still holding it. He gave it back to her and asked curiously,

"You said that you write stories?" He remembered that - he paid attention to what she'd said. 

 

"Yes in my early retirement, I write for my own and other's enjoyment, just amateur unpaid fiction. I'm going to read this book a little and see if I can use some of it in my next story." she explained, trying not bore him. He was too busy to waste time with a retired woman in some park in NY. At the same moment, a spark of excitement spread through her mind: she would write an epic tale, of love, loss, undying devotion, honor and loyalty to the death, war and peace, life and death and the afterlife. She would think about her mother, long gone, and write a story she would never repeat again. 

"Maybe you can write about the samurai." he suggested hopefully. She began to smile in agreement. 

"Yes, I think --- i think I will. Thank you- you just gave me the inspiration to write. Maybe I'll include you in it too. " she says, knowing she will, even though she's never asked for his name. It didn't seem important anymore. It was just her and him, sitting here in the park under his umbrella. He tilted the umbrella lower to cover them more. "Yes, you'd make a very good samurai." she shyly complimented him. There it was: the closest she'd ever come to saying-without-saying that she knew who he really was. Her heart nearly burst when his cheeks colored and he covered his smile with his hand. They laughed together. She didn't want to take up any more of his precious time. She knew she had to do this now. She opened her purse and took out a small white leather zippered case. Opening it up, she held up a blue set of beads. She saw his eyes widen in recognition.

"Since you've been so nice to share your umbrella with me, and listen to my life story, I'm giving you this blessed rosary from my travels years ago in Paris, at the Shrine of the Miraculous Medal. I was honored to see the uncorrupt St. Catherine Laboure there." She handed it to him gently. He took the beads in both hands. 

"I'm so very touched. You want to give me this? You don't even know me…" he held the beads as if they were delicate china.

"Give it to your wife, or maybe one of your children. Or take turns praying with it. I wish I had five for you and your whole family." she shook her head a little sadly. 

"Thank you so much for your thoughtfulness." He looked straight into her eyes, and she knew then why this man was chosen to play the Lord. She watched him reverently put the light blue beads back inside the case. He opened his coat and carefully stored it in his inside jacket pocket. She saw how white and pressed his shirt was, saw the beautifully tailored suit collar. Her heart skipped a beat again for the hundredth time that morning, when he looked at her again with such intensity and conviction, 

"The Miraculous Medal was what made me who I am today. I got my first break because of it." he confessed as he re-adjusted his coat again. A sound like "Ahhhh" came out of her mouth. Just then, she heard voices in the park. They come from a small group just outside the front gate. She sees two cameramen, a woman carrying a small case, equipment and a black screen being carried towards them. They're coming towards their bench. The bubble burst, the sounds of her surroundings once again returned to her full force.

Instinctively, she moves away from him and his big umbrella and reluctantly begins to rise from the bench, breaking the spell. The drizzle has stopped, she realizes. He closes the umbrella and stands up. Tall, commanding the space around him with his presence, and impossibly beautiful. She feels that she can right now die a happy woman, for she has seen "Jesus", spoken to him and given him a parting gift she'd been carrying with her, for such an encounter in the rain, such as this. 

"Thank you again, for the beautiful rosary from the shrine. I'll give it to my daughter when I get back home." he bows a little at her, and turns reluctantly to leave the quiet sanctuary of the park and its elm trees. He turns around to face her again. Her heart is in her throat, as he walks back towards her, reaches for her hand and brings it to his lips, and kisses it softly. 

She stands with her hand still outstretched, as he leaves and meets with the small film crew. She watches as the makeup woman quickly powders him up, sprays and combs his shiny hair, cameramen set up their equipment near the gate, a man in a wavy ponytail giving "Jim" his directions. She watches Jim listening, his head tilted in concentration, his hand tucked inside his coat pocket, perhaps to touch the rosary there? 

She walks to exit the park, and the group is walking out also. He stands away from them, getting into position, waiting for them to finish setting up the cameras. A curious crowd of pedestrians begins to gather and stare on the corner of 42nd and Fifth. As she passes through the exit gate, he sees her, the woman with the gold edged book, who gave him a rosary for his daughter, who never said his name aloud, whom he'd connected with for a little while in his very busy day. Gratefully, he touched his coat pocket again. The gold of her book shines in the distance as she watches the scene before her. 

She now knows who I am, he thought to himself. Or did she know me and just didn't say? She sees everything, his chair with his name on it, the cameras, the action. 

The light is still red at the corner where she must cross soon. Cross back to reality, to her own life miles and miles away from NY. She is only here temporarily but her life has permanently changed today. She finally fulfilled a life long dream: and she didn't even once call him by his name. The light changed to yellow now. She looked at him one last time, wanting to burn his face into her memory forever. He was looking back at her just as intently, looking almost peaceful. What was he thinking about, she wondered? Of their conversation? Of his family? Wishing he were maybe like her, an anonymous New Yorker, going home to a family and normal life, and not having to be who he was and do what he was going to do soon?

Just then, they both waved at each other at the same time, through the distance separating them. For a moment, they were both back sitting on the park bench together, under his big umbrella, just two normal people connecting for a few precious moments before moving on.

The light turned green: she crossed the street quickly, trying to keep up with everyone else, but now, she was crying uncontrollably for the first time in her life, right in the middle of crossing the street in NY, wet tears falling down onto the book she held tightly.

For a moment, his expression is peaceful, grateful, as he sees the woman cross safely to the other side. Then, he looks down at his cue cards, a look of intense concentration transforms his face.

He is John Reese again.


End file.
